


Tattoo

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Feather, M/M, Mycroft has done wet work, Tattoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:58:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have never believed that Our Mycroft - from the BBC version, ie Mark Gatiss - made his way up through the ranks of the civil service and is now able to work with the CIA, the Secret Service, MI6, etc. without ever having done a lick of field work. His dislike for legwork must stem from something, right? </p><p>Esendoran asked for Mycroft to get some kinda bad-boy badassery for once. This isn't even a stretch, as it turns out. I never would have given Mycroft a tattoo, on my own, but this all feels pretty headcanon to me now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tattoo

They made it back to his flat before things went beyond the most erotic hand-holding Greg had ever experienced. Mycroft could do things with his fingers, while staring out the window and discussing parking regulations at various embassies around the world, that made Greg very glad there was a driver. He gave up on consonants when Mycroft had let go of his hand and started tracing the outline of his fingers, and just made vague response noises when Mycroft paused. And when Mycroft had let the tip of one finger drift past Greg’s palm and stroke lightly across the inside of his wrist, Greg had finally clenched his hand in a fist and pulled away entirely. He could hear the smile in Mycroft’s voice as he continued describing the economic negotiating power of diplomatic immunity versus parking tickets. Sometimes it just wasn’t fair.

Greg had Mycroft down to his shirt when they finally made it into the bedroom. He’d thought they would take things slowly, and that there would be a lot more discussion of boundaries and trust and honesty, but the trail of discarded clothing seemed to be all the boundary they were going to get.

Mycroft pulled away as Greg started to slide his shirt off his shoulders. “Mm. No, hang on.”

“Suddenly shy?” Greg asked, grinning and letting his hands start to work on his own trousers.

“Cufflinks,” Mycroft said, holding up one wrist as he pulled the gold knot loose.

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”

Mycroft smiled, tucking them into his pocket and leaning back in to resume their kiss. Greg pushed the shirt the rest of the way down Mycroft’s arms, then ran his hands back up the smooth, naked skin of his arms. His fingers trailed over the pale forearms, and paused. He turned and looked down, smearing his mouth away from Mycroft’s greedy lips. “What happened there?”

Mycroft let Greg raise his left arm and look at the long ripple of scarring. “Ah. I’d forgotten.” He watched as Greg traced the white-and-pink skin, turning Mycroft’s arm and studying it. “It’s nothing serious.”

Greg blinked up at him. “What? Is it contagious, or something?”

Mycroft tipped his head back and laughed. “Dear me, no. It’s from a tattoo I had removed.”

Greg stared, then pulled back a little, folding his hands in his lap. “Okay... okay. I think I need to hear this.”

“I can’t tell you all the details, of course,” Mycroft warned him.

“Even better. How old were you when you got it?”

“Old enough so that I can tell you it was work related, and that is why I can’t tell you precisely how old I was.”

Greg nodded slowly. “Right. Undercover?”

“Not as such, not really, no.”

“What was this tattoo of?”

“I...needed to get access to a certain range of information,” Mycroft said carefully, his eyes on his forearm, his long fingers lightly rubbing back and forth across the wrinkles of discoloured skin. “It required a barcode. I couldn’t carry anything that might be found, not even so much as a slip of paper. The solution was the tattoo, which had to be sufficiently disguised so as to pass as a tattoo, should I be intercepted. The lines were disguised as a feather.”

“And what was the significance of the feather?”

Mycroft looked up at him with a puzzled smile. “There was none. It was purely to hide the barcode.”

“But nobody just gets some...random thing tattooed on them. If someone had seen it and asked about it, what would you have said?”

“I would have improvised,” Mycroft answered. “But no one ever did.”

“No one saw it?”

“No one asked.”

Greg thought about that for a moment, and started grinning again. “I _see._ And how many people have seen the scar?”

“You are not the first.”

“Ri-ight. Any of them still alive?”

“I’m afraid I can’t comment.”

“What, you had to kill some of them?”

Mycroft’s eyes hardened, his expression froze. 

It was only for an instant, but there was no denying it. “My God, Mycroft,” Greg breathed. “I thought... I mean, when Sherlock talks about you being dangerous, I thought it was all...on a different scale. Like extradition and withdrawing funding or aid or...policies,” he trailed off. 

“MI5, the Secret Service, the CIA?” Mycroft said quietly. “I wasn’t born behind a desk, Greg.” 

“Jesus. I mean. Do you...still...?”

Mycroft tipped his head and gave Greg a Look. “Certainly not. I made quite sure that my rise up the ladder skipped as many rungs as possible. I followed orders as necessary, but spent as little time on the receiving end as possible. I was able to convince everyone rather quickly that I was of much more use in an office than in the field.”

“I’d say I didn’t know, but that’s a bit obvious,” Greg said, laughing shakily. “I mean, I imagine that’s sort of the point.”

“It is, yes.” Mycroft straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin. 

Greg looked over at him, then couldn’t look away. “You don’t have to kill me now or anything, do you?”

“You shouldn’t be going into this blind,” Mycroft told him. “It is not possible to blackmail me,” he went on with a slight smile, “and so I choose to tell you what you will never learn any other way.”

“So you’re not going to kill me.”

“And neither will anyone else.”

“Now that sounds like a promise you won’t be able to keep,” Greg said firmly, raising a finger.

“Should I ever be proved wrong, I look forward to your complaints on the matter.”

“You know my job’s not exactly safe either,” Greg pressed, still serious. “You can’t expect me to stay out of the line of fire. I mean, literally or metaphorically.”

“I am well aware of your responsibilities and the risks associated.”

“And you know I’ve never killed anyone. You know that, right?”

“No reason you ever should have,” Mycroft answered. “You’re far too aware of the paperwork involved.”

Greg shook his head slightly, and laughed. “Well. Probably not as much as you.”

“Dear me, no. No, no. If it led to any paperwork in _my_ job, that meant you’d done it wrong.”

“Ahh. Discretion.”

“You’ll find I can be very discreet.”

“I think I’ve found you already have,” Greg answered, and moved forward again.


End file.
